He paused at the opening. He was half buried in the drift, and the lash of the storm whipped his face mercilessly. For some moments he endured the assault, then his voice came back to the figures of his companions squatting moveless over the fire.
"Ho, you, Julyman!" he called sharply.
Moments later the Indian stood beside the white man, peering out into the desolation beyond.
"She's not going to last a deal longer."
Steve was wiping his face with a bare hand.
Julyman missed the movement in the darkness.
"She mak' him break bimeby—soon. Oh, yes."
There was something almost heroic in the attempt Julyman made to throw confidence into his tone. But Steve needed no such support. He was preoccupied with his own discoveries. His bare hand was still wiping away the curiously moist snow that beat upon his face.
"Yes," he said conclusively. "She'll break soon." Then after a moment: "She's breaking now."
An interruption came from the distant dogs. It was the snarling yap of a quarrel. Then came the echo of Oolak's harsh voice and the thud of his club as he silenced them in the only manner they understood.